


Not Quite Too Late

by loveandallthat



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, endgame jack/parse or bust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7108156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandallthat/pseuds/loveandallthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack accidentally confesses on live television that he had a young love that ended badly.  It's possible that this isn't quite as bad as he thinks it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, Jack and Kent haunt me like crazy.
> 
> No beta, PLEASE let me know if you see any errors.

Kent will swear up and down that he didn’t  _ mean  _ to watch it.  Sure, he knows that Jack’s going to be gracing televisions nationwide with his brief, awkward presence on a popular morning show.  And yes, he knows which channel that would be, and OK, maybe he has the TV switched to that station.  That still doesn’t mean he’s watching this on purpose; he’s not a masochist.

 

He still ends up catching the whole interview.

 

There’s no doubt about it; Zimmermann fame has trained Jack from an early age to have responses perfectly ready.  Of course, Kent knows as well as anybody how they discuss the questions ahead of time.  He also knows better than anybody how especially helpful that is for Jack.

 

But of course, Jack never does what anybody expects, does he?

 

So Kent is maybe less surprised than the rest of the world when Jack responds to the interviewer’s personal story of finding her first intense love in college with, “I found mine before that.”  And at the same time, he’s probably the most floored.  Literally, as he falls out of his chair loudly enough to miss the interviewer’s next question, and he only catches Jack’s response.

 

“Yeah, it was exactly like that.”  Jack looks incredibly uncomfortable; it’s probably obvious to everyone and their mother watching this interview that he didn’t mean to take the conversation here.  “But I ruined it, so.”

 

Jack’s incredibly transparent attempt to derail the conversation and steer it back to their original, pre-approved questions works, if only because the interviewer must feel too awkward to even entertain the notion of trying to keep up with that line of questioning.  Instead she straightens out her notecards on her perfectly crossed legs, and moves on in a manner that’s almost smooth, under the circumstances.

 

Kent can’t even hear the interview over the sudden influx of feelings.  He finds himself unable to stand up from his position on the floor, so he just waits it out, thinking back to all of the panic attacks he’s seen Jack have, and realizing that he’s still nowhere near there.  That’s good.

 

Before he knows it, his phone is out of his pocket and in his hands, and the screen says he’s calling Jack Zimmermann.  Once his brain catches up he can’t help but realize that everyone else who’d been watching this interview (everyone who probably heard about it directly  _ from  _ Jack, instead of on the internet like a creepy stalker) was probably calling him too.  Certainly Jack would answer for his parents, or some of his college friends.

 

“Shit, I guess you were watching?”

 

And yet.

 

Kent stares at his phone for at least ten seconds before he hears Jack go, “Kent? . . . Ken-”

 

“Yeah, I’m here.  Sorry, I’m just really surprised you answered.”  Well, that doesn’t sound good at all.  He tries to form words that explain that he figured Jack would be busy, not that he would be ignoring him.  Though, he kind of wouldn’t be surprised to find that to be the case either.

 

“Yes,” is all Jack says to that, even though it’s obvious.

 

“Do you have time to talk?” Kent continues, halted.  He’s reasonably sure the answer is no.  There’s a pause.

 

“It’s fine,” Jack replies, which means he definitely doesn’t, and yet still wants to.  That’s new.  Or maybe it’s just so old that Kent doesn’t remember it properly, the feeling of Jack wanting to talk to him.

 

Kent’s at a loss.  He called Jack, but he has no way to phrase what he’s trying to get at.

 

“Shit,” he sighs finally, and Jack exhales audibly.

 

“This isn’t going to get back to you,” Jack insists forcefully.

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“I don’t want you to think that I’ll let people know who I meant,” Jack clarifies.

 

This is the most ridiculous thing to happen to Kent in his entire life, including being first pick in an NHL draft.  Jack Zimmermann is reassuring him that he has nothing to worry about.  Because he has just talked about his first, great love on national television.  And he meant Kent.  Even though they were some semblance of “together” for  _ years _ and he never even implied he was serious about it.

 

“What the fuck?” Kent asks, before he can stop himself.  He’s never been able to anyway, around Jack.  “You think that’s what I’m worried about?”

 

Jack sounds like he’s been caught off-guard.  “What else would you be worried about?”

 

_ In love with Kent? _

 

“You, Zimms!  Obviously.”

 

Maybe the only obvious thing was that Jack would be thinking about himself and, maybe because of that, would expect Kent was doing the same.  Looking out for number one.  And Kent isn’t exactly the pinnacle of altruism, but he’s also not about to call someone up to talk about his own problems, immediately after they’ve royally screwed up.  If that  _ had  _ been his worry, he would have at least waited a bit.

 

He doesn’t say that to Jack, though.  After a while he hears Jack sigh, and he puts his hand to his head.

 

“Back then,” Kent starts awkwardly.  “Back then I didn’t know.”  There isn’t any need to clarify what he means.

 

Jack is characteristically quiet for a few moments, but he breaks it by being uncharacteristically upfront.  “Yeah, well, I knew.  Obviously.”

 

Obviously?  Yeah, right.

 

Kent wants to ask Jack why he didn’t say anything, but Kent hadn’t exactly said anything either.  Their relationship, if they could call it that, was too unstable for that.  Anything could have brought it tumbling down, so when an earthquake had hit, it stood no chance.

 

Not that it was Jack’s fault, by any stretch of the imagination.

 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Kent focuses back on listening to Jack; even though neither of them are speaking currently, Kent can still hear breathing on Jack’s end.

 

So he just says, “Fuck,” and, “What are you going to do?” and waits for an answer and plans to be supportive.  But Jack doesn’t make it easy; he never does.  It’s not his fault though, that he starts hyperventilating into the phone.  Kent panics too.

 

“Shit, never mind, don’t think about that.  Think about--wait a minute.  You were just on a show that films in New York, and I’m visiting my parents.  Think about if you can get here or if you want me to come to your hotel.”

 

Jack’s still sounding a little short of breath, but he answers, “hotel,” and even though the call ends there, Kent gets a text with the information a few minutes later, and can be hopeful that either Jack is fine, or someone else is there with him.

 

He jumps into his car without grabbing anything but his wallet and keys.  Oh, and his hat.  Can’t forget the hat.

 

After leaving the car with the valet, not really nervous since it’s just a rental, Kent struts into the lobby and toward the elevators.  It’s a good thing he has the room number already; it’s not like he could have asked at the front desk and expected them to give out Jack Zimmermann’s room number.  Hopefully.

 

When he sees room 527, he hesitates at the door instead of knocking.  When it opens, he realizes Jack must have been waiting for him, and he walks in, taking a cue from Jack’s silence and saying nothing.  Jack drops onto the king bed in the middle of the room so, after hesitating, Kent does too.

 

“Didja miss me?” leaves his mouth without his express permission, and fuck, he was supposed to be nice this time.

 

But Jack just look up from the floor, turns his head to lock eyes with Kent and breathe, “Yeah,” like it hurts to say.

 

It hurts to hear, to be honest.  It feels like a lie.  People who miss each other shouldn’t kick them out so often.  But he’s not here for his own problems, at least this time.

 

Jack is still sitting on the bed, staring at his hands, and Kent suddenly feels too vertical for this.  He doesn’t even know why he’s here, except that he offered to be.  He might just be the person least qualified for this task in the world right now, but maybe he was the closest.  He drops down onto his back, head not quite reaching the pillows.

 

“So,” Kent starts.  His voice is too loud for the room; up until then, the silence had been incredibly palpable, impossible to ignore.  “Do you want to talk about it?”  He sounds awkward.  Kent knew Jack and his issues for years, but had he ever even asked that question?

 

The question, if nothing else, draws Jack’s gaze back up to Kent.  He looks a little bewildered, which is rude.  Kent is obviously a caring and supportive friend; there’s no reason that should be a surprise to anybody.

 

What should be a surprise, though, is that Jack answers, “Yeah, I guess.”

 

\---

 

Jack takes a deep breath.  Honestly, he didn’t expect any of this.  He had been so nervous about the interview that even his media training and careful practice hadn’t been enough to keep him from blurting out something dumb.  Not just something dumb: the most moronic thing he could have possibly said.  The rumors had mostly died down, but almost certainly he had managed to stir them back up.  Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson, don’t they seem a little  _ too  _ close, if you know what I mean?

 

Obviously, he and Kent had known what they meant.

 

Weirder still was that when he got the call from Kent, it hadn’t been about keeping him from further spilling the beans.  No, Kent Parson claimed to be worried about him.  After how he had acted when visiting Jack at Samwell, it seemed doubtful, but Jack had a definite weakness for that kind of kindness, and before he knew it, he was telling Kent where to go to visit him.  The hotel room was supposed to be just in case he had trouble getting out of New York on his flight, but this situation seemed sufficient.

 

So now Jack is sitting on a hotel bed, looking down at where Kent is sprawled across it like he belongs here.

 

“It was an accident,” Jack explains, unnecessarily.  Kent just grunts.  “I was just trying to keep the conversation going,” Jack continues, “I wanted to seem less awkward.”

 

“Really dodged that bullet,” Kent jokes.  His ankle knocks into Jack’s hip, and Jack barely keeps himself from jumping at the contact.

 

“Hilarious,” Jack grumbles.  

 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Kent reassures, after a few moments of silence.  When Jack looks down at him, he continues, “OK, yeah, some people will suspect it’s me, but it’ll die down again.”

 

The phrasing strikes Jack as odd, since they wouldn’t  _ suspect _ , they would know.

 

Kent looks flushed as Jack studies his face.

 

“It  _ is  _ you,” Jack clarifies, in case it’s necessary.  Kent gets redder.

 

“Yeah, I figured,” he replies, unconvincingly.  Jack rolls his eyes, flops down next to Kent, shoulder to shoulder.

 

“You really think we can get away with doing nothing?” he asks.

 

“Well, I can,” Kent teases.  Jack knocks the back of his hand into Kent’s thigh as punishment.  “Ow.  You know they’re more likely to think you’re talking about a girl.”

 

Jack turns to look at Kent, but he’s still staring at the ceiling.  It bothers Jack too, the heteronormativity.  He might not be in a position to be out-and-proud about his sexuality, but he still sometimes wishes he could make a difference.

 

Lying here like this, in an anonymous hotel room, feels almost unsettlingly familiar to many hours, many days that he and Kent had spent almost exactly like this, years ago.  From the best and easiest times where they were on top of the world, to the terrible end he had alluded to on that dumb morning show barely two hours ago.

 

Thinking about that makes it painful to look at Kent, makes Jack hyper aware of the entire catalogue of bad parts of Jack’s personality that lives in Kent’s brain, everything he knows about him and has never once even hinted at to the presses.  The very same knowledge that, Jack assumed, inspired Kent to call him in the first place, to know in the back of his mind that Jack would answer.

 

Maybe there is something to be said for being around someone who knows him this well, but it mostly just makes Jack feel guilty.  All the shit he said back then, the first time Kent visited Samwell (honestly, how had he found it in himself to come back after that?), every ignored call or message.  Jack has been unable to talk to Kent properly for years, simply because he’s a reminder of the worst time in Jack’s life.  It’s not even his fault; he’d done his best to deal with it, but Jack couldn’t handle it.

 

And now it reminds Jack of being weak and anxious, petty and rude, and now just plain guilty.  He can’t be around Kent.  Can’t be right here where he is.

 

“Hey,” Kent whispers, startling Jack, and touching his shoulder.  Jack jolts, realizing that he was lost in thought for a bit too long.  “Do you have a plane to catch?”

 

“I already missed it,” Jack tells him.  “It’s fine.”

 

“I don’t want to tell you how to live your life,” Kent starts, and Jack snorts, because  _ really _ .  “OK, well, not this time at least.  But missing a flight somehow doesn’t seem fine.”

 

Jack goes to protest, but is interrupted by his own stomach growling, which is--well, it wouldn’t have been embarrassing six years ago, when they were close and Kent probably would have just laughed and dragged him off to eat somewhere.  Now, though, Jack slaps his hand on his stomach in a futile attempt to quiet the noise.

 

Even with all the time and space between them, Kent still just snorts and stands up.  Instead of grabbing Jack he just eyes him impatiently, but it still feels like an echo of their past selves, and Jack is up before he’s really thought about it, grabbing his wallet and phone and room key and leaving close behind Kent.

 

Jack doesn’t let Kent stop at the shitty restaurant on the first floor of the hotel, suddenly sure that they need this to be something better.  It’s after lunchtime on a weekday, and the streets aren’t terribly crowded; the restaurants shouldn’t be either.

 

He tries to stop at one place that he knows that Kent has been to and liked, but Kent’s grabbing his wrist and pulling him past.  “I have a bad feeling,” is his only explanation, and he pulls Jack instead to a simple local deli.  Jack doesn’t mind.

 

They’re quiet until they have their food, but even though Jack is starving he finds himself eating slowly and hoping Kent will say something.

 

He does.  “Everyone has a childhood love story.  The only reason this will be news for a bit is because you don’t usually talk about this kind of stuff . . . or because of the rumors about us.”

 

It’s not the smartest thing to say in a nearly-empty restaurant, but Jack reminds himself that they’re not actually  _ that  _ famous.

 

Jack thinks of Bitty, whom he once overheard telling Shitty about how, being closeted in Georgia, he hadn’t really let himself try.  He doesn’t bring it up.  Kent’s point is still mostly true.

 

“I may have overreacted,” Jack admits.

 

Kent smirks, but his expression relaxes as his shoulders do, and he confesses, “Yeah, me too.”

 

That’s fair, Jack thinks, considering that Kent had called him so quickly.  It’s weird to think of Kent having even watched the show, that he heard about it and was still concerned enough about Jack to decide to watch it.  He was just walking around living his life with an intense, intimate knowledge of every awful part of Jack.  It’s not that Jack worries that he’ll give anything away (apparently that’s Jack’s job) but it just . . . doesn’t sit right.  It’s like he’s made Kent’s life worse.

 

“It’s going to be kind of annoying, though,” Jack concedes finally.

 

Kent grins genuinely, and Jack’s heart beats a little faster.  “I think you can handle it.”

 

Jack takes another bite of his sandwich, both because his appetite is returning, and to stop himself from saying anything stupid.  They’re not anywhere particularly fancy, but it’s dimly lit and mostly empty; the employees are leaving them alone and they’re off in a corner of the restaurant.  It feels like a date, more than anything they’ve ever done before, when they were young and busy and driven.

 

Jack wonders if Kent is thinking the same thing, but he looks pretty relaxed.

 

Until he looks up at Jack, from a little under his eyelashes and says, “I can’t believe I found out you loved me from national television,” and Jack’s face gets hot all over.  Kent looks panicked, keeping his eyes on Jack’s face like he expects the worst.

 

But Jack relaxes instead, because this is closer to normal for them.  “You’ve always made me a little reckless,” he somehow says without his mouth getting permission from his brain first.  It turns Kent’s expression to his signature cocky smirk, though, which makes it worth it.

 

“Is that right?” he drawls.

 

Jack can’t help but look Kent up and down then, every bit of him he can see above the table, and the physical reality of Kent, his increased muscle tone and his soft-looking t-shirt, everything suddenly comes together to drive Jack crazy.

 

Kent clearly notices.  “What’s up?” he asks, leaning in.  That doesn’t help.  Jack’s always been weak to Kent, but this is the first time in a long time that he’s not tempted to fight it.

 

“I don’t know,” Jack says, and Kent looks ready to speak again, so Jack keeps going.  “I don’t know if I ever stopped feeling like that.”

 

That keeps Kent from speaking for quite a while, actually, enough that Jack wishes he had more food left to eat to feel less awkward.  He hadn’t gotten fries with his food, trying to keep to his diet, but he finally gives in and grabs one off Kent’s plate.  Kent doesn’t even complain.

 

“Zimms,” he eventually manages, “what the fuck?”

 

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Jack insists.  Really, that would make sense, considering.  If Jack were him he probably would have given up, tried to move on.

 

“That’s not it at all,” Kent kind of yells.  People turn to look at them, them politely try to look away, glancing back up a little.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers, as if to make up for it.  Then he pushes his remaining food at Jack, looks down at his lap, and plays with his shiny watch.

 

Jack is suddenly on edge.  He doesn’t know this Kent Parson, doesn’t know any iteration of that man who isn’t intentionally, knowingly loud and sure of himself.  Even when they were telling each other secrets in dark hotel rooms, confessing their dreams and sharing their goals, Kent was always so sure.  It sets Jack off more than he expects, seeing a change in that, and he takes out way too much money from his wallet and slams it on the table, grabbing Kent by the upper arm and dragging him out of the restaurant, keeping him unsteady the entire time by yanking him off balance.

 

It’s a definite power play, and Kent doesn’t fight back, so Jack, frustrated, whirls him around until they’re in the alley to the side of the deli.

 

“What the fuck,” Kent repeats, but there’s no bite to it.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Jack demands, too harsh as usual.  Kent looks resigned, like he expected this question.  Good.

 

“Look,” he says, “I’ve wanted you to say something like that for years, so I’m sorry if it’s a little hard for me to believe, OK?  Nobody gets exactly what they want handed to them on a fucking silver platter.”

 

Jack absolutely cannot take it anymore.  He puts a hand behind Kent’s head and uses the other to slam his shoulders into the wall right before he brings their mouths together.  Kent doesn’t respond right away, except to rest a hand on Jack’s chest for balance, but Jack keeps at it, catching Kent’s bottom lip between his and dragging his teeth over it slowly.  This is exactly how they behaved, years ago: making out whenever and wherever they got the chance, risking way too much and being far too dumb, and Jack wants some of that back.

 

Kent gets into it, finally, getting his arms around Jack’s neck and opening his mouth when Jack runs his tongue on his bottom lip.  Kent moans, which immediately lowers what remains of Jack’s inhibitions, and he starts reaching his hand into the waistband of Kent’s pants.

 

That’s when Kent pulls back, using his hands on either side of Jack’s face to make sure he complies with the unspoken command, even though Jack had been stopping the second he felt a rejection.

 

“Not here,” is what Kent actually says.  “We can do better than this; we can go to your shitty hotel room so we don’t get caught.”

 

Jack’s hotel room is really nice, actually.  “We still might get caught there,” he points out.  The two of them together at a hotel, after that announcement, after the past rumors, wouldn’t be the best for their closeted statuses.

 

But Kent looks incredibly, unexpectedly serious.  “I can’t do this here,” he hisses, looking straight into Jack’s eyes.  He looks unsettled, and Jack obeys unquestioningly.

 

“OK,” Jack shushes him, “Of course, yes, let’s go.”  He has no idea how to sound calming in this situation, and is mostly trying to keep himself from also freaking out.  This is never how they used to talk to each other, and they still don’t know how.

 

They walk back to the hotel silently and try to get up to the room without attracting attention, but they get the elevator to themselves, and Jack crowded Kent into the corner, a little.

 

When they’re in the room, when the electricity is crackling between them almost unbearably,  Kent throws his arms around Jack so hard that they both collapse onto the bed, but instead of making any moves on Jack, he just keeps holding him, and Jack lets it happen.

 

They’re weird tonight, off, and not quite as overwhelmed by their need for each other as they used to be.  Even the most recent time at the Haus it had taken everything in Jack’s power to push Kent away.  This time there’s barely any urgency, and most of it is on Jack’s end.

 

Their equilibrium is off.  If they tried to play hockey right now they’d probably lose to a youth league; they don’t have anything left of what they used to, Jack thinks.

 

Maybe not, though; their hockey compatibility was always independent of their off-ice status.

 

Jack shifts so they’re more cuddling than awkwardly sprawled, and everything gets about a thousand times weirder in the air between them.  It’s too early to be acting like this, and it’s not even like they just slept together.  

 

That’s probably why Kent pushes himself up after a few minutes, bracketing Jack’s hips with his knees and leaning in close.  Jack’s already on board, getting his hands on Kent’s lower back and pulling him in gently.  This, they’re used to; this they’re good at.

 

“You can’t push me away again,” Kent almost-begs, and Jack doesn’t point out that he’s currently  _ literally  _ pulling Kent in, because he knows what he really means.  

 

“We’re different now,” Jack points out.  “We won’t make the same mistakes.”

 

“Oh, great, we’ll make new mistakes instead,” Kent jokes.

 

“Yeah, probably.”

 

Kent starts to lean all his weight onto Jack, getting their faces closer together, but Jack runs his hands under the back of Kent’s shirt and up until he reaches his hair.  He knocks off Kent’s hat and peels off his shirt, at which point Kent drags Jack to a sitting position to remove him of his, too.  Then Kent stops and stares, says, “You really  _ have  _ grown up,” and makes Jack embarrassed enough to feel the blood rush to his face.

 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he manages, before finally leaning in to kiss him again.  This time Kent is expecting it.  They  _ are  _ different people now, but they fall together as easily as they ever did.  Somehow Jack is still initiating, pushing, taking things further.  He palms Kent through his pants and uses the distraction to get him on his back, looming over him and moving his hand slowly, afraid of a protest.  All he gets is Kent moving into his touch, clutching his shoulders tight enough to bruise, and panting into Jack’s mouth.

 

“Come on,” Kent groans, and moves to start undoing Jack’s pants.  Once they’re open, Jack does the same for Kent but takes it one step further, getting his pants all the way off and then, watching Kent’s face the entire time, his boxers as well.

 

It’s been a while, but he still goes for it; he gets his hand around the base of Kent’s erection and licks up the underside, from his own hand to the head.  Once he’s there he sinks his mouth down as far as he can, and Kent cries out.

 

It gets even better when Kent puts his hands in Jack’s hair, gripping but gentle, making noises without holding back.  Jack is extremely hard by the time that Kent is warning him that he’s close, but Jack just keeps going, sucking harder, moving his free hand from Kent’s hip to get a handful of his ass.  Kent comes down his throat and Jack tries not to think about what it means that he can still take it so well, that he swallows all of it.

 

When he pulls off he’s so hard he’s aching, and he suddenly needs to kiss Kent, to prove that he isn’t just going to run again.  It’s not his most logical plan, but it isn’t the least, either.

 

He gets his mouth on Kent’s and kisses him until he responds, almost exactly the way they had been earlier.  When Kent comes back to himself, he licks his hand slowly, eyes locked on Jack’s, and then gets his hand inside of Jack’s underwear and around his cock, pumping slowly at first and going harder with encouragement.  It barely takes a minute, and when Jack finishes all over Kent’s hand, Kent cleans it off with his tongue.  Jack knows Kent has never liked the taste; he just does it to be sexy, but it works.

 

They come down slowly, lying on their backs with their shoulders talking.

 

“Well, that hasn’t gotten any worse,” Kent announces.

 

“I just sucked you off,” Jack deadpans, “I would hope you’re not going to complain about it.”

 

Kent gets up on his elbows at that, running his eyes over Jack’s face assessingly.  Apparently satisfied, he leans down over Jack and kisses him slow and sweet, nothing like they’ve ever done before.

 

“That was nice,” Jack says, trying to keep the tone of surprise out of his voice.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent grumbles, leaning away again, turning over like he’s about to go to sleep.

  
Jack just gets under the covers and waits for Kent to follow, which he does.  Eventually he even moves closer to Jack, pointedly not talking to him or even looking at him as he does it.  Jack just laughs and closes his eyes, content for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr as [loveandallthat](http://loveandallthat.tumblr.com/)! I take prompts for tons of fandoms and pairings.
> 
> I appreciate all comments, including criticism. Sorry the sex is cursory and boring? I don't usually write explicit scenes but it kind of seemed to fit. Hopefully. Plus I'm tired of posting things with T ratings.


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